She pressed back into the recliner
trying to make herself less visible.

“Helen. Helen. Where the hell are
you?”

She cringed and didn’t move a muscle.
It sounded like George after a six pack of beer.

“Helen, is that you in my recliner?”
The raspy voice was closer.

She heard sniffing sounds.

“Helen, are you smoking a cigarette
in my chair.” The voice paused. “I smell my special imported scotch from the
Isle of Skye. Are you drinking my private stock?”

Helen laid perfectly still for a
second. Then she jumped from the chair and turned around facing the voice. She
kept backing toward the fireplace and the urn.

“Oh my God. It’s you. George. What
the hell are you doing here? You’re dead.” She looked frantically for an escape
exit. But George was between her and the front door.

He walked over and slumped into his
recliner. “Get me a damn drink. No ice cubes. Turn up the heat, it’s colder than
hell in here.” He shivered and laughed at the same time. Hurry up, dammit. I’m
freezing.”

She trotted to the kitchen,
bewildered and unable to think straight. All she knew, George was here and he
wanted a drink.